Bad Samaritans

In the sweltering haze of a suburban sprawl, Carly and James tear down the street in their battered sedan, the air thick with resentment. Fresh from a humiliating dinner at his folks' place, Carly seethes—three years of her life wasted on this spineless prick who won't even whisper 'forever.' He chuckled with Daddy about her desperation right in her face. 'I'm 25, damn it! I need roots, not this limbo!' she snaps, voice cracking like thunder. James snarls back, calling her a nag, a ball and chain dragging him down. The argument erupts into raw fury; she demands he pull over, anything to escape his stench. At the stop sign, she bolts, slamming the door on his half-assed pleas. He revs the engine and peels away, leaving her fuming in the dust. Title flashes: BAD SAMARITANS. Blocks blur by as Carly trudges on, arms crossed tight over her heaving chest, hot tears carving salty paths down her cheeks. That bastard didn't even glance back—oh, he'll pay when she boots his ass out for good. Lost in this godforsaken maze, sweat soaking her thin blouse, purse and phone abandoned in his getaway ride. A sleek black SUV prowls into view, engine growling low like a predator on the hunt, closing in slow and deliberate.